The Play for Power
by gemmawolf
Summary: Spades has lost the respect of the other kingdoms after it backed out of the Wasted War two centuries ago; now, the King of Hearts seeks the position of Pack Guardian, a duty held by the King of Spades since the Ancient Days. Alfred is young and unprepared for the path that the Gods have planned for him, and powerless to prevent the war predicted by his Queen. Cardverse, USUK.
1. The Will of the Ancients

The unceremonious crash that echoed throughout the castle startled the other Queens, but not Arthur. He simply set his embroidery gently down on the table, stood, and assured the gentleman and two ladies that he would return soon enough. Once he was out of sight down the corridor, however, his upright posture, his graceful movements, and the balanced, poised expression expected of a great noble disappeared, and he legged it to the kitchen.

_What has he broken now?_ he wondered, skidding on the smooth stone paving of the lower levels. Almost a year on from their coronation, the King still hadn't mastered control of his newly bestowed powers. He almost ran straight into a young maid who had come running to the sight herself, but pushed past her and stooped over the other monarch.

The young man lay between two halves of a shattered and splintered table, silverware and food all over him. He didn't appear to be bothered by any of it though, as he munched on a thick chocolate biscuit. His expression changed, however, when his eyes met with the Queen's. He swallowed. "Heh heh... um, I was just after a cookie."

Arthur straightened up, tugging on the bottom of his silk waistcoat to pull out the creases and nodded to the few staff who had gathered to dismiss them – the rest were now accustomed to the frequent sounds of destruction throughout the castle, and no longer came to investigate. Once they had gone, and the King had finished eating his precious snack and stood up, the Queen spoke. "Alfred, what did I tell you would happen if I found you had another 'incident' this week? And I want the exact expression that I used."

The King's face fell. "Ah," was all he managed to say, suddenly recalling that particular conversation and backing towards the door a few steps. "You said you would 'kick my arse all around the castle'?"

The Queen started walking briskly towards him, a sneer spreading across his face. "Get running."

The servants of the Spades Castle gaped as their King went racing past them in the various winding hallways, with the Queen, leaner and faster, hot on his tail and sending the occasional boot on a collision course with his backside, extracting pained yelps from the young ruler. It was undeniable that although King Alfred held ultimate power of the kingdom, Queen Arthur was boss.

* * *

Alfred's behind was decorated in dusty footprints by the time he staggered hissing and whining into the library. The Queen had eventually gotten tired of their game of cat and mouse, caught him by the collar and shook him ferociously, nagged a little, and sent him away with a flea in his ear. Despite facing a long hike up a tower, the King had limped up the stairs to the safety of his semi-private haven to get some peace from the rest of the world. The servants were permitted everywhere but handful of places in the ancient, sprawling castle, and this was one of the few rooms where Alfred felt he could truly be independent.

There was no luxury in this room. Cold stone was only warmed by the golden glow of afternoon sunlight through the slit-thin windows and the minimum oil lamps at the door and desks; some of the books on the shelves were hundreds, possibly thousands of years old, and they wouldn't want to lose them in something as stupid as a fire.

Usually, each time he came up here he would bring something to make place more bearable, such as a woollen blanket or a snack, but thanks to Arthur's intervention he hadn't the chance to find something suitable. The good thing about not having servants up here though was that nothing was taken back downstairs unless he did it himself, which meant that there was some comfort to be found here and there. Two piles of books sat on the east-facing table: 'to-read' on the left, and 'read' on the right. The right-hand pile was over a metre high was going to topple over if he didn't put some of the books back very soon.

With a sigh he effortlessly picked up the entire stack and began climbing the ladder against the gigantic shelves, slotting each one back into the exact space he found them. The bookshelves stretched high above, almost to the height that the roof began to taper to a conical point; every ten feet or so there was a narrow ledge with a railing that one could walk on to reach the next horizontally rolling ladder, then the next, and the next, all the way to the top. Only the bravest climbed to the top shelf, and Alfred had done it over and over in the past year.

Even with the cold, blank surfaces of the walls and furniture, there was comfort in being surrounded by the knowledge of Kings and Queens and Jacks of generations passed, their stories and wisdom handed down through these dozens upon dozens of tomes, locked away in this secluded tower that served no other purpose. Soon it would need an extension, as the shelves at floor-level were almost completely filled with the last monarchs' writings, and Alfred intended to add a fair few instalments of Spades' history himself.

Once the last book was slotted back into its home, the King tenderly pushed himself and the ladder back round towards the ledge. It was quite possibly the only place in the entire castle that he hadn't damaged somehow, and he had no intention of doing so either. Aside from the temples and shrines, no location deserved greater respect – at least in his opinion. Once he reached the ledge he carried on climbing upwards, a few of his favourite titles catching his eye and hitching a ride along the way. He carried on up through the last three levels until he reached the top of the tower, opening up the trap door and squeezing his broad frame through the small gap.

It didn't seem fitting for a King to be crawling on hands and knees, but he had no other option. The ceiling was low as the roof sloped upwards to its pinnacle, making the dimensions squat yet cosy. He shut the door and scooted away from it, gently placing his quarry in another disorderly pile at his side. A single window, wider than the ones below and fitted with swirling, indigo glass, was indented in the junction where the stone wall finished and the slate roof began, bathing him in glowing blue light. It wasn't enough to read by though, so he lit the lamp that he had brought with him a few months ago when winter had set in. It illuminated the tiny, forgotten space as if Rome Himself was there with him. Perfect.

* * *

"I'm so terribly sorry that the King required my attention earlier," Arthur said lightly as he walked through the lawns, arm in arm with the Queen of Clubs. Her parasol was a little optimistic he thought, but at the same time he supposed that their blustery springs had more sunshine than the Kingdom of Clubs did in an entire year; perhaps she burnt easily.

"Not at all, your Highness," she replied with a smile, "I'm just glad we could have this walk. It's so lovely to see some green without being eaten alive by the insects in Hearts."

Arthur chuckled in agreement; the tropical regions of the south-easterly kingdom weren't his cup of tea either. While he enjoyed warm weather, he detested rain, water and moisture in general. He liked the cold burn of crisp, dry mountain air that Spades was blessed with, and the Hearts jungle was the polar opposite of that atmosphere, where he had to dress in full-length garments to hide from mosquitoes while also attempt to keep cool; not an easy task.

It was much more in his tastes to wear similar attire all year, which his home kingdom allowed. Long coat, white gloves, top hat; it was traditional and demonstrated his class and powerful position. What's more, it made him look like the utter gentleman he was.

Well, most of the time.

They walked along the gravel paths for a while, quietly admiring the pristine condition of the bushes, trees and flowers so early in the season. The grass was a lush green unlike the natural salt grass that was unique to Spades; the great, icy expanse of water to the continent's north had a habit of lashing the kingdom with the crystals through rain, snow and sleet – if the plants and animals couldn't handle it, they died, which caused the native flora and fauna to adapt to their mostly harmless home, developing quirks of anatomy to bypass the health effects. The only trace of the compound was a distinct and unavoidable savoury flavour, which helped to preserve the various meats and crops through the winter months.

Hey stopped to rest on a carved bench beneath a yew tree at the furthest reaches of the garden, overlooked by a massive rock wall that ran around the entire castle grounds. Occasionally the sun would break through the clouds' defence and light up the western side of the castle's towers and walls in a pallet of blue-greys, the pennants fluttering the prevailing breeze. The air was turbulent, yet peaceful, although Arthur felt there was another reason behind the Queen wanting to take a walk. Eventually, she found the words.

"Can I confide in you, Arthur?" she whispered sadly, her empty eyes braving to meet his. He nodded silently, genuinely concerned for his close friend. The young woman fiddled with the layers of her dress for a moment before continuing. "I'm worried about the King, _my_ King. The Wasted War was over two hundred years ago, and we know that the people of the other three kingdoms have yet to forgive us. I can handle the hate, I was born into a line of soldiers so I am strong, but Ivan is not. He was born a poor miner's son, believing to be destined for no more than a few short years on this continent. He wants friends, Arthur, not this life of whispered words and spite." She wiped her face with the handkerchief that the Spades royal handed her. "He can't detach himself from their hate and it's hurting him, to the point that I fear he may declare war."

"And you come to me because my Insignia is Trust?" he asked carefully.

She shook her head. "No, because I can be open with you. It upsets me to see him grow darker each day, but it worries me more. I suppose I am trying to look out for him, as well as the people. What I ask is that you, and the King and Jack might take this knowledge into consideration if my kingdom is discussed in court. And I ask that as a friend."

Arthur had to nod and promise to try; what else could he do? Once the Queen of Clubs had gathered herself together, they strolled back to greenhouse where the other two Queens were waiting happily in the warmth with pine tea and buttery biscuits. A short distance before the entrance, Arthur had a thought. "Perhaps, Elizaveta, you should talk to the Jack of Hearts? He's supposedly a kind little fellow, and your two kingdoms are on fair enough terms, are they not?"

The lady smiled and replied, "I could try, but I think he's rather afraid of me, especially with my soldier heritage."

"Well, just a thought for the future then." A pair of guards clad in cobalt-tinted steel armour opened the door and closed it behind them in one smooth movement, swallowing them back into the castle and out of the chilly spring air.

* * *

Turning another page, Alfred checked the time on his pocket watch. It was simultaneously a good and bad thing. "Shit!" he yelped, clapping the book shut, blowing out the lamp and clambering down the ladders in record speed. "Not again!"

It was the last night before their guests, the three Queens of Hearts, Clubs and Diamonds, returned to their kingdoms after their annual visit, and a banquet was to be held as was usual for such special events – events which the young King frequently forgot about. Nobody could eat or even sit down until his arrival, and he was a full half-hour late at the top of the library tower, and was going to take another five minutes at least to arrive if he ran at full tilt.

_It could be worse though,_ he reasoned; in December he was over two hours late for his first Feast of Salt dinner, an act which did not amuse the Queen in the slightest and cost a lot of people power to return his reputation to its former glory. There was no excuse for that little escapade, but there was potential for blaming this one on 'being consumed in study' – which was _partially_ true and made him look a bit better.

The guards at the end of the corridor were already opening the doors for him as he turned the corner, probably under the strict instructions of the Queen to get him in the hall as soon as they caught sight of him. Someone was announcing his name as he sprinted through the doorway and carried on right to the other end of the giant marble-floored room until he reached his designated seat at the head of the table. He grabbed the back of the lavish chair to steady himself as he puffed and coughed. "Sorry... sorry... Please, sit down - Imeanpleasebeseated."

The scraping of wood against marble echoed throughout Britannia's Hall as butlers pulled out and tucked in fine, cushioned seats for the many guests. Alfred plonked himself into the hard, high-backed chair and finally managed to catch his breath, but also caught the disapproving glare of the Queen from his left. He pulled an apologetic face and turned to the Jack for help, but his searing stare was twice as intense. Alfred settled for shrinking back into the padding of his seat like a scolded child as the quiet mumble of chit-chat began pouring from the nobles at the other end of the table.

"Would you care to explain to their Highnesses and I why one is so late?" Arthur asked as he folded his napkin, eyebrows arched high off his face and his mouth a thin, emotionless line.

"Oh yeah, that; you see, I was – dang, what's that word now? Oh! – _consumed_ in my studies." He grinned handsomely. "Please forgive me ladies. And you, your Highness," he added, gesturing awkwardly to the Queen of Hearts.

"Do not worry, your Majesty," he replied, struggling a little with the silverware. Thankfully, Yao the Jack was seated by his side to assist, quietly talking about how overly complicated it was compared with chopsticks, but necessary when eating venison steaks.

"Oh wonderful," chirped a soft voice, barely heard over the growing clatter of the nobles. Queen Elise of Diamonds was the youngest royal of the entire Pack continent, barely turned sixteen and already nicknamed 'Elise the Delicate' down to her fragility and beauty plucked straight from a village in the countryside. "May I ask what studies, King Alfred?"

"Uh," the King drawled, unsure what to reply with. While the tales of George the Great, King Britannia and Father Time resembled Spades through the centuries, it wasn't exactly accurate history. "The study of... heroes?" he managed finally.

That seemed to suffice. The royals ate in silence, while the unruly rich men at the other end of the room continued to grow in volume; it annoyed the King to no end. The ignorant, ungrateful cries for more food, more mead and the constant complaints regarding the commoners below them; he had been raised in a set of barracks at the southern coast of the kingdom, where every meal was silent and rushed so that the soldiers could continue with their shift or their training; the wives and children didn't have such duties to complete, but meal times in the camp were just as strict to them – it wasn't a buffet, as his father used to tell him and his brother.

Life in the miniature fort was uncomfortable, but not hard so long as you did your part. He spent most of his childhood running errands for the women or going out into the fishing village for food and supplies, but that only took up a small part of his routine. The rest was filled with games and exploration outside of the barracks walls, an act that was supposedly forbidden but he'd never been questioned by the guards at the gate. It gave him the taste for adventure, for discovery, which he carried into his new role as King, but he knew that many children in his lands would never have that freedom.

Hundreds would be stranded in shops and workshops trying to bring in enough gold to pay for their supper, possibly the only worker in the family; it was a way of life that Alfred intended to end.

In his bored state at the dinner table he couldn't help but listen into the fools' conversations, one of them sticking out through the white noise. "A few minutes later I caught him slacking off again; I said, 'Boy, those ropes won't wind themselves'. He gave me some sort of lame excuse that his hands hurt, so I had to lay into him a bit and dock his wage a few pieces; told him if it happened again he'd be out of a job. Little brat got on with it then, after making sure he'd wasted my time-"

Something silvery sailed towards the man, caught his fancy hat and embedded itself and the accessory in the mortar of the wall, sending the room into silence. Arthur shot up out of his seat. "Alfred!"

"What?" he snapped back, posture rigid as he leant on the table with his hands, causing it to groan painfully. "It's my job to put bullies in their place." He glared at the man, who had shrunk to half his size under the scrutiny.

"This is out of order," Arthur hissed. Alfred half laughed at his attempt of regaining power.

"So are these idiots," he said, pointing to the other end of the table. "I've put up with them for the last year, all bickering and backstabbing and selfishness. You've no appreciation of the toil of the working man, and while I can't strip you of your inherited riches I can strip you of your title. Get out, every single one of you, get out, and don't you _dare_ enter my court again."

The Queen's jaw dropped at the sight of the nobles hurriedly leaving. Once they were out of earshot he turned to the boy in fury. "Are you stupid or something? You've just left us without a court! No representatives, no financial backing - nothing!"

Alfred was already walking away, excusing himself politely from the stunned Queens and Jack on his way. "I hardly think they were representative of our people." He wandered over to where the fork was stuck several inches into the wall and eased it out, letting the grinding squeal resonate through the hall and the hat fall to the floor. "I won't be another King who just sits on a throne and talks out of his ass. If we're going to become a great kingdom again we need the best people we have. Honest people, who we can trust, and have the courage to speak their minds." He turned back to the Queen. "Those are the Spades Insignias after all. I'm going to bed now; I'll see you in the morning."

He turned and left at a leisurely pace, his back straight and tall. For once he felt to be the authority in the castle instead of the Queen, who started shouting after him. "You'll tear this country apart, you fool! I don't care what power he held; the old man was _mad_ to make you King!"

* * *

Alfred laid staring at the ceiling, the swirling ocean of grey and white drawing him deeper into his thoughts. He was supposed to be saying his farewells to the Queens, but his heart wasn't in it, not after last night. It had been a rare moment of bravery and stupidity, dismissing his entire court like that; a change in the system couldn't work so suddenly, and soon enough he would have to ask the nobles to return to their posts.

Unless he began searching for replacements immediately.

He rolled over between the plush covers with a groan; the bed was far too big for him alone; it was designed to be more than enough space for a King and a Queen, but they weren't the first royal couple to live separately. He had thought about finding a mistress, but the idea didn't appeal to him thanks to his traditional standards; he was married to Arthur and, whether they were in love or not, he was bound to him until death did they part. He wouldn't take another lover while they shared the throne.

_There has to be a quick and reliable way to find new members of court,_ he thought, covering his face with a swollen pillow to shield the morning light from his eyes. There _was_ a method he could use, but it was only meant to be used in times of need; while he could use it, the very fact that he was hesitating showed that the Spades Watch wasn't the last resort. A King that relied on his token to bail him out of everyday problems was a weak King.

He huffed and forced himself to get out of bed and get dressed. "Guess I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way," he said to himself. After selecting some more casual attire he rang a maid for some breakfast; he still wasn't ready to face the Queen. His harsh words had bitten into him even when he felt empowered the evening before, and now it was troubling him.

Arthur had always made it clear that he believed he would make a better King, or rather, that was what Alfred got from his torments and punishments. The man wasn't born into _nobility_ per say, but his line of mage blood extended back into the Ancient days, to Britannia herself and her four sons. The Kirkland House had held a place in power ever since those days, their magic unmatched by anyone in Spades. These days, very few possessed enough of the strange energy to do anything with it, and it was rumoured that the only reason that it hadn't been diluted completely was that every couple of generations an heir would marry their sibling or cousin; so maybe those frankly frightening eyebrows was a result of centuries of inbreeding.

The Queen was a lot of hot air, capable of complaining and lecturing for hours on end with the only result being that he felt better afterwards. It just so happened that Alfred was the sort who took words on board on a personal level, and it stung to hear that the older man didn't trust him to run the proud kingdom. He could understand why, though; his education in the castle before they were crowned was more of a debriefing than an attempt to culture him, rushing through the topics of geography, politics and history, the latter being the only one that stuck with him as an interest. Alfred had never visited another kingdom; he fell ill the day before they were supposed to travel to Clubs during winter after he had gone stargazing in the icy night, and the King of Hearts had to cancel the autumn trip due to severe flooding. They also missed the visit to Diamonds during midsummer because they were technically still on their 'honeymoon', which turned out to be no more than free time for him to explore the castle and make his discovery of the library's attic.

In short, he knew nothing in comparison to the other two royals, and was beginning to believe them that he should never have risen to power. Sometimes the only way he carried on was by listing everything that was wrong with Spades, and the rest of the Pack, and think of ways to solve the growing problems in priority order.

Starting with recruiting down-to-earth, hard working citizens to advise him in matters beyond him limited knowledge.

It took him until the early afternoon to complete the notices for each town and village that he could think of; it would have been easier to have several scribes write his dictated words, but he preferred doing his own work than having others run around after him if he could help it. Any settlements that he had missed would be included by the thorough work of the castle's messengers so that anyone could have the opportunity to speak their minds. He steered clear of working in the library, knowing only too well the temptation that awaited him whenever he sat at his desk in the tower. The bowl of honeyed oatmeal had long gone cold as he scraped it clean, but he enjoyed its sweetness nonetheless and felt more human for it. Then, gathering up his paperwork, he left his room to search for the guard master.

Once he was in the dusty courtyard it was simply a case of following the sounds of clashing steel and shouting to its source until he found who he was looking for; Mathias was leaning against a stone pillar, watching two training soldiers battle it out with blunt swords, egging each of them on in turns.

"Go on; use your arm right up to the shoulder lad! Gregory, are you gonna take that crap from him? He's half your height! Sorry Nigel, he just needs the encouragement 'cause he has a tiny – ah, your Highness!" He jumped into a salute, but Alfred waved him to ease.

"Hey Mathias, I need you to send some men out. Nothing serious, just a small guard for some messengers," he explained, holding up the papers in his hand. "Think you could do that for me?"

"Of course; how many men, sir?"

The King shrugged. "If you round up a few dozen couriers and have, I dunno, six guards for each of them; that should be enough, right? Organise it as you see fit, but make sure it can be done as quickly as possible."

"Yes, sir."

And that was that. _Now what?_ Alfred pondered, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets and meandering back through the castle. He found himself heading for the court, where the Queen would no doubt be sitting on his throne, still bubbling over with anger about the previous night.

The guards were not stationed by the giant wooden doors; strange, they were supposed to be there every hour of the day. Maybe they were dismissed due to the lack of people to guard in the first place.

Just to see if he could do it, Alfred pushed one of the heavy blocks of pine with his index finger; it opened smoother than when an ordinary man used his entire body weight against it. He soon regretted the decision, however, when a blade came hurtling towards his chest and lodged there.

"THE HELL?" he cried, and stared across the court to his attacker. Arthur sat in the King's seat, legs crossed and a smug expression across his face.

"Oh relax, will you; only a King can kill a King," he purred, closing a leather-bound book and twisting his hand in the air, producing a second blade out of nothing. Alfred went to grab at the handle of the dagger that protruded from his chest, but it's gnarled, glowing blue matter faded to mist in the air. No blood and no pain. But it had scared him regardless.

He slammed the door shut, internally wincing when he heard a crack splinter through it, and strode towards the raised end of the immense chamber. If one thought Britannia's Hall to be huge, this place was _monstrous_. The fittings of the court were sparkling enough to be considered modern, however also fancy enough to appear antique; a royal blue carpet swept from the base double doors to the foot of the two thrones, bordered with silver knotting patterns and magical runes. There was no other permanent furniture aside from the luxurious seats of power, as everybody was made to stand in the monarchs' presence. Banners of rich azure and blueberry hung from beams on the arched ceiling, with no clue how they got there, and the grandest stained glass windows in the castle stretched high above their heads to bathe the granite floor and walls in light. The heart of the Spades Castle was the more impressive in design and craftsmanship of architecture than anywhere else in the kingdom, possibly the continent.

The King stopped in front of the platform, hands firmly at his sides, and watched Arthur with interest. As ever, the Queen was dressed immaculately, covered in shining silks and tight woollen clothes available from the finest tailor in the City of Spades; he sat, delicately pushing the tip of the remaining dagger into the end of his ring finger until a drop of dark blood swelled from it. "Don't," Alfred whispered, his voice carried by the sheer volume of the room.

Arthur appeared to ignore him, standing up and walking to ground level where a chalk circle had been drawn onto the glistening black rock. He extended his hand and let the blood drop into the centre. Instantly, light burst from the markings on the floor, almost blinding Alfred through his glasses. A wind stirred up despite them being indoors, pushing against them with all the force of a hurricane and roaring like a bear. "What are you doing?" Alfred yelled over the noise, his hair plastered against his face, wondering how quickly the guards could arrive. He was beginning to fear for his life; the Queen was clearly insane, bent on summoning demons to finish him off so that he could take his place as ruler of Spades.

The older man seemed unfazed by the tornado whipping around them, standing stock straight and staring back into the light. "This is a blood prayer, Alfred," he shouted back, not looking around to the King. "It's how we communicate with the dead."

"The dead?" the King shrieked. "Oh no, not ghosts, not in _my_ kingdom! I knew something was up with you Kirklands, and it just had to be necromancy, didn't it?"

"Not just any dead, you idiot," Arthur replied, slowly raising his arms over the circle. "Britannia."

The name of the God caught Alfred off guard, letting the torrent of air sweep him off his feet and send him hurtling against the hard steps at the base of the thrones. _Ouch,_ his mind mumbled, but his body refused to co-operate any longer, leaving him to lie sprawled on the floor, defenceless, and watch the mayhem unfold.

Which was a disappointment, because aside from the rush of the swirling wind dying down, nothing happened; perhaps it was his head playing tricks on him – how hard had he hit it, anyway? He slowly closed his eyes, surrendering to the easier path of calm darkness; he could have fallen asleep, except the Queen was talking aloud to the empty air.

"I ask of you, ancestor, what is my destiny?"

A moment of silence lingered. Alfred began to feel as though he was burning up, some internal pain surging through his entire body. It stopped when Arthur began speaking again, this time more panicked.

"What? No, certainly not! Are you sure?" A hiss, and he felt the burning again and cried out weakly. "Damn it all; fine then, how will Spades rise to power once more?" The sensation continued and grew, a searing light piercing his thoughts.

The Queen was growing frustrated. "Who will save us from the war?" he shouted.

"Stop shouting, my head hurts!" Alfred hollered back, tugging at his hair and rubbing his forehead, curling into a protective ball. The light was all he could imagine now, and he wished, wished, _wished_ it would go away. His wishing seemed to work, because the light started to recede, the soreness in his bones lessening to beautiful numbness, and before he passed out completely a deep, motherly voice whispered to him: _You will._

* * *

In the time that the King's doors remained closed, Arthur had finished his latest embroidery project, researched the technique for creating a truth potion, and perfected a new charm for making leather gloves indestructible. It was getting dark outside, as he'd been sitting on the velvet bench in the private corridor for almost three hours now while the Jack was busy diagnosing and treating the young monarch, who remained, to the best of his knowledge, unconscious in his bed.

Though he would never admit to it out loud, he felt incredibly guilty for putting the boy in that state. He hadn't meant to! When Alfred burst in on him preparing to ask King Britannia for guidance, he let him stay, thinking that he'd be no trouble and hopefully be too terrified to ever bother him again. Instead, when he asked the God his questions, offering a drop of his own blood each time, the answer came back the same:

Alfred Jones.

It wasn't hard to work out; the Ancients meant for him to come to and stay in power, Britannia in particular, for she had matched their souls for the road ahead - although she could have made the young pup Queen instead of himself, in his opinion. _But who am I to question the Gods?_ he thought with a sigh, looking up at the doors. To his surprise, they opened.

"Come," Yao said, straight to the point as always. Arthur stood, stretching his arms above his head, and entered the King's quarters. He hadn't set foot in the place since their wedding night, and never intended to again after those awkward twelve hours of sleeping on opposite edges of the giant bed, refusing to even entertain the idea of merely holding hands.

The Jack pointed him to the head of the bed before disappearing from the room, leaving him to sit alone at the King's side. He flinched when he realised that the young man's eyes were open and resting on him, darkly lit with suspicion.

He bit his lip. "All right, I know it looked bad in the court, but I can explain."

"You can start with why you threw that knife at me; I thought I was going to die, you know?" he croaked from under the covers, closing his eyes again.

"It was a precaution," Arthur mumbled, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. "I placed a quarantine spell on the hall to keep everyone else out and the sound and light in, but clearly it didn't work on you, being the King and all. You startled me."

Alfred laughed, then winced. "_I_ startled _you_? You're the one who was practicing some weird voodoo jinx back there. Necromancy isn't attractive, you know? In fact I'm pretty sure they banned it as a dark art five hundred years ago."

"Would you shut up, I told you it's not necromancy."

"Yeah yeah, you were contacting Britannia."

"Yes, I was," Arthur snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose. "After the stunt you pulled with the court members yesterday I needed advice to make sure the kingdom isn't turned inside out. You're insane, Alfred; what sort of King makes such rash decisions?"

The boy struggled to sit up, glaring back at the Queen. "I'm not like you," he said seriously, "I wasn't born into a world of servants and money. I didn't have it bad, but I knew plenty of people who did, who struggled for enough coin to keep a roof over their head, never mind food in their stomachs. When they brought me here a year ago they told me I could do great things, Arthur, things that would make Spades a better place. A country, an empire, is built on the backs of workers, not nobles, and if we want to bring our Deck to the top again we have to invest in the greater population, not just the men and women with the loudest voices and deepest pockets."

Arthur said nothing for a moment, evaluating what he had said. The teenager made an animalistic noise and threw himself over onto his other side to put his back to the Queen, who smiled and rose from his seat.

"Spoken like a true King, Alfred," he said quietly, and turned to leave. At the door he stopped, fingers resting on the handle. "I can't quite believe it, but the Ancients must be right about you. Rest up; let the moon heal you for the morning. We have work to do."

"Arthur?"

He remained facing the door. "Yes?"

After a pause, the King whispered, "You said something about a war earlier."

Arthur took a deep breath and shook his head. "Ah yes, a terrible war; and we're already galloping straight into its jaws. But don't worry about such things, Alfred; there is time yet to prepare. Sleep well."

#####

This is a side-project to Twelve Months; it's not my priority but when I need a change of pace, this is what I do. Unlike my other stories, I'm not planning the plot of this one beyond little twists and turns, so it's pretty much made up as I go along. I love designing worlds, though, and I've been desperate to get my teeth stuck into Cardverse for some time now.

I wonder where this story will lead.


	2. The Visit

The arrow hit the target just shy of the centre, burying itself halfway into the painted straw to leave its tail wagging side to side with a hum. Alfred looked at the Queen for approval, but he merely shook his head for the infinite time. The boy groaned, rolled his aching shoulders before taking the correct stance once more, drawing a new arrow back gently so that he didn't snap the bowstring. His eyes peered across the courtyard toward the middle of the target, squinting as the morning light cut into his retinas. Although the bumps and bruises of the mysterious event two days ago had disappeared under the blessing of the moon shrine, his head still throbbed if he used it too much, as was the case with the piercing light scraping eye level and reflecting off the packed dirt.

He let the arrow fly as he exhaled, peering after it to see if it hit had finally struck home. It was at the correct height this time, but a smidgen to the right. The King swore and thrust the bow into the arms of the Queen, who too was growing impatient with the archery practice. "Yes, I think that will do for today as well," he purred, handing the weapon to a nearby guard and heading back inside. "The first visitors should be arriving in the next hour, and you need to look presentable."

Alfred took a quick glance at his rumpled clothing; the sleeves of his sky blue shirt were rolled up, patches of sweat causing it to cling to his skin; his pants were no better, covered in kicked-up dirt. Hopefully there would be time for a short bath before he had to spend the next several hours in front of hundreds of people.

"In that case, I'm gonna head to my bathroom," he said, knocking the sides of his muddied boots on one of the steps to the door. Arthur sent him a glare from the corner of his eye; he didn't necessarily have to destroy something to cause a mess in the castle.

"Just make sure that you're not late, Alfred."

"Will do."

It was as he sank into the welcoming envelope of the water that his foggy head began to clear, the steam in the room dislodging the mental barricades; he remembered more details about the night before, the static and glow of Arthur's magic circle, and the powerful turbulence that filled the enormous court. All from a few drops of blood, apparently. He wondered if the servants had managed to scrub the crimson stains from the sparkling granite floors, ready for the arrival of the many possible governors.

He'd already made sure that all the guest bedrooms were made; there was a 'meagre' twelve double rooms to serve as accommodation for personal visitors, ranging from modest comfort to extravagant luxury, the latter sort usually reserved for members of royalty. Who knew how many men and women would show up on the castle's doorstep, or how many had already arrived? They needed somewhere to stay until some permanent housing could be found or built.

At that thought, Alfred climbed out of the tub, painfully aware of his habit of missing important events. His formal attire was laid fresh on his dresser, the fine cotton and intricate embroidery shining with the light from the frosted window. It didn't feel right to him, sitting on a gold and silver throne in such rich fabrics while labourers bowed to him and begged for a job.

_Give it a rest,_ he told himself, buttoning up the fresh white shirt; _you're offering them a chance to help themselves, their family and their countrymen. You haven't destroyed their way of life or raised taxes or demanded their service on the battlefield yet, so they shouldn't hate you._

It all seemed so simple when he put it like that.

"Huh, well, that turned out well for everyone," the King chirped, grinning at Arthur; he rolled his eyes and carried on with his sewing as they sat in one of the many living spaces, a fire blazing to give them warmth. He had grudgingly admitted to himself that Alfred had done a fine job that day, considering each individual fairly to see if they were matched for the task at hand. Questions were asked and answered, and, while some seemed a little off topic, they quickly showed whether the subject was a man of their word; several of the richest people of Spades had leapt at the chance to join court, many of them bringing gifts to act in their favour.

Alfred had thanked them and accepted their presents, then ordered them out.

The wealthiest of their twelve remaining guests owned a mill in the capital city; the rest were typical working class people, a couple of them starved beggars. Maybe the boy had taken pity on them, but they were hardly the only ones struck down with poverty to ask for the job. The Queen was pleased with him for not taking in every vagabond or pickpocket that entered the massive hall, harsh as that decision was. BLAH BLAH BLAH.

The velvet cushion was crushed under his knees as he knelt tall at the front of the inner sanctum of the cathedral; the Queen never grew tired of the massive scale of the place, similar to the court yet underground; perhaps it was that key fact that made the gigantic hall so astounding. It was so dark that the carved arches of the ceiling were almost invisible, and the entire length of the jewelled walls had to be set aglow with thousands of wax and oil candles, setting the air alight with engulfing warmth and calming floral scents. The grand marble statue of Britannia reached up into the false night, her face swallowed by the shadows, and the altar lay at her feet, where the Jack was chanting prayers and flicking salt water over each shoulder and above his head.

"May your hand heal and preserve us," Yao's voice rang around the chamber, holding his hands up and open at eye level in front of him, as was the stance of prayer for the Europan religions; "by the light of the moon, and the sting of the ocean. Gift us with wisdom, if we deserve it-"

Arthur was almost knocked off balance when the King slumped against him; he jabbed him in the ribs, eliciting a yip of pain from the teenager. If they weren't already sat at the front of the room, Arthur was certain that the hundreds of staff and soldiers and new nobles would have turned around to see what was going on.

"Wake up, you disrespectful little mite," he hissed, elbowing the boy away. Alfred groaned quietly to himself and returned to the correct position, back straight, wrists resting on the padded bar in front of them, hands forward, upright and open.

"It's just so boring," he mumbled, blinking hard to stay awake.

The Queen held back a lecture regarding the proper respect for the Ancients, and a threat to summon the ascended Spades King once more to tan his hide, but it was neither the time nor place for such things. Instead, he closed his eyes and focussed on what the Jack was saying, embracing the prayers as his own.

"Enter our souls to make our mettle strong, to learn to trust ourselves and our natures, to help us act with selflessness and honesty, so that in time we may enter Europa's Plane. We pray:"

Keeping his eyes shut and his hands aloft, Arthur spoke the mantra with the rest of the crowd. "In war, in peace; in sun, in hail; in light, in dark; show us the path that you wish for us to take." A shiver ran down his spine at those words, remembering the vision She had sent him last time he used his Token.

Somewhere deep in the Queen's quarter was a room, unknown to the rest of the world except the current royal. A swipe with the monarch's hand across a particular wall would reveal a hidden tomb, lit by faint wisps of blue flames along the perfectly smooth ebony walls, sloping down into the earth to a low-ceilinged square room that was almost a scaled-down version of the cathedral; a solid stone altar squatted at the far end, with a sculpture of Britannia once again guarding it. However, held between her granite hands was an enormous clock, round and polished and humming with energy. A secret incantation, unique to each Queen, would allow him to connect with the timepiece and view three entirely possible futures.

First, the best: any wealth, discovery or victory within their grasp would be achieved, the kingdom unmatched in its glory; but while it was feasibly it was also a fool's dreamscape, relying on unlikely generosity of the other kingdoms and sheer luck to become reality. It was often ignored during strategic consultations, though sometimes it was nice to see what the country could be like at full potential. It also served to gauge if the most likely outcome would be relatively pleasant or not.

Secondly, the expected: the most likely conclusion to the issue at hand. Yes, a great deal of the minor details could change, as there was a huge grey area between positive and negative, but the fundamentals were the same. A specific event would occur and there was no stopping it. It was nice to believe that this possibility would have equal gains and losses, but the truth was that it was as harsh as reality.

Finally, the worst path: if everything would go wrong, this is what it would look like. The typical scene was ruins of the Spades City and the proud castle decaying in between the flames or sheets of sleet, whichever the Ancients preferred. He wasn't sure what the point of this vision's existence was – maybe it was just a twisted way of Britannia telling them that things could always be worse – but again, it was possible from what went on in the continent.

The last time he had used Britannia's Clock was when he had left the dinner in a rage after Alfred had dismissed the nobles; he failed to see how such a hot-headed, illogical dimwit had been chosen by the Gods to inherit the title of King – and Guardian of the Deck, too – so he decided to try and understand Her reasoning.

But the mirages that came to him were still plaguing his mind in the hours where he was alone. To put it lightly, even the best future would result in the kingdom being left in tattered remains, and the other three were no better. As for the worst: hellish scenes filling up with spilled blood and gored men and women, put to the sword by their rulers and enemies, and cataclysmic clashes between ultimate powers. The King, the Jack and himself all dead, corpses left to swell and rot in the gulping mud of the battlefield. And that wasn't even the end of the destruction.

The cause of it? War. Unavoidable, inevitable war that had been building since the uneasy truce between the four kingdoms two hundred years in the past; they could win or lose or stalemate, but it had to happen, and the visions gave no clue as to what triggered it. But it was coming. _Ancestor, if there is some way to limit the devastation ahead, please guide me toward it,_ he prayed himself, only opening his eyes when he felt the King nudging him.

"Arthur? Sermon's over, let's go." The Queen refrained from shushing Alfred for being so blatantly rude, sick and tired of the attention and gossip of the castle's staff. The young monarch grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the tight twist of the stairs that led to the surface level, the easterly light of morning thrown long and low through the tall windows, blinding him in the shine of the Rome's sun. He made a noise of disapproval, straightening his waistcoat and smoothing the creases left on his legs from being frogmarched up the spiral stairwell, then walked tensely beside the other ruler.

He could hear the younger man restraining his breathing, attempting to keep quiet; it seemed, for once, that his message was clear. 'Don't touch me, don't talk to me; you are unworthy of doing either.' Still, Alfred couldn't help but break the uneasy silence between them, his grinding voice drowning out the soft echo of footsteps on marble. "You're not usually so into Yao's sermon," he blazoned, "What's up?"

Arthur huffed. "Nothing," he lied. "Maybe a little stressed?"

"Over what?"

"Has anyone ever told you, 'Sire', that you're a nosy prat?" he retorted, stopping to square up to the King – or try to. Alfred had a good half-inch more in height.

Their bickering was cut short by a pair of guards rushing toward them, drawing up short a few yards away. "Your Highnesses! The King of Hearts has arrived to speak with you!" one panted, bowing his head and shoulders to them. Arthur stared back at the man.

"But... no royal visits have been planned," he said, mostly to himself as he bit his lip and looked out of one of the elaborate windows, thinking. _That cheeky bastard has been pushing his luck more and more, recently._ He ordered the soldiers to make sure the visitor was comfortable in the glasshouse and the guards bowed and retreated; once they were safely alone again, the Queen began pacing in a circle, tangling his fingers in fistfuls of his own platinum hair and screamed through his clamped teeth. "Gods _damn it!_ You've got to do something about Beilschmidt, Alfred!"

"You think I don't know that?" the King snapped back, leaning carelessly against the silver ornate wall. "He's been after being Guardian since before we were coronated. And why do _I_ have to deal with him? You're the Queen; you're the one who deals with foreign affairs – _you_ do it!"

Arthur pressed the boy against the walls by his shoulders; despite the King being much more powerful, he wisely stayed put under the mage's scrutiny. Arthur knew that his glowering stare could freeze anyone, even his one superior; pair that with his ability to detach from emotion, and it was no wonder the people had taken to calling him 'Arthur the Cold'. "Beilschmidt has brought Hearts closer than any other leader to being Guardian of the Deck. He's powerful, mighty, and will stop at nothing to make sure his kingdom reaches the same status. The only person who is stronger than him is you; you can keep him in check, if you handle this correctly. Delicately." He forced the reluctant boy down the corridor, toward the greenhouse where the foreign Royal would be waiting. "Just see what he wants and get him out of here."

"Ah, Your Majesty, there you are," Ludwig Beilschmidt said with the authority of a god, inclining his head slightly. Alfred swallowed back his nerves, still unused to consorting with other members of royalty and remembering only too well what Arthur had told him the other day: that only a King could kill a King; while his bestowed strength was greater, the Hearts monarch was still very capable of snapping his neck or skewering his heart if he chose to do so.

"Yours too," he replied shakily, and motioned to the velvety-cushioned carved pine chairs in the room. "Please, do sit. I believe you wished to see me?"

_That's it, Al,_ he thought, relaxing a little as he slumped into the backrest. _Pick your words, hold your ground; you are also _his_ king._

His guest nodded, and pulled an envelope from his crimson and burgundy robes. "My spies in Clubs have come across something worrisome-"

"Woah, wait a minute," Alfred cut in, leaning forward and pinching the bridge of his nose. "What do you mean, spies? If they were found out we could have spiralled into another war!"

He saw Ludwig's eye twitch at the accusation of stupidity. "Sometimes it is necessary to keep a silent watch on others..."

"Do you have spies here?" the Spades King asked bluntly, staring the taller man straight in the eyes with an icy ferocity.

"That's beside the point," he replied, squirming a bit in his seat. "What matters is that they have found sufficient evidence that Clubs is storing weaponry and long-term supplies. They do, indeed, seek war."

Alfred leant back again, hissing through his teeth in frustration as a maid appeared and mutely poured them cups of tea. The sharp scent of pine cut through the air, the rising steam making the warm glasshouse feel cooler in comparison. Arthur took salt in his tea, as was tradition in Spades, but Alfred preferred sugar. "Why tell me this?" he asked numbly, his eyes closed as his mind reeled, bringing the boiling cup to his lips to blow on.

The King of Hearts stirred his tea apprehensively, looking into the depths of the dark liquid with caution, the silver spoon clanking highly as it caught on the edge of the china. "Our kingdoms are undoubtedly the strongest," he rumbled, taking a sip at last. Alfred had almost finished his. "If we could make a pre-emptive strike, make casualties could be prevented." Ludwig almost leapt out of his seat as the Spades monarch slammed his cup down, smashing it to pieces and cracking the glass tabletop.

"No," Alfred said simply, cursing under his breath at the mess. He righted his clothes and posture, and clasped his hands together. "No. We can't repeat the past. Your spies must be wrong, either about the statistics or the intention, but think for a moment: how could Clubs ever hope to gain hold of either of our kingdoms? And then how would they invade Diamonds?"

"My spies do not get make mistakes, Your Highness," the second king growled, setting his empty cup down gracefully. It was clear that he had much more practice and control over his superhuman form. "Perhaps, I am being hasty, but you must understand that the Wasted War almost wiped out the Deck; you are correct in every sense that we cannot afford to repeat the past. That is what I am trying to do," he explained, as if talking to a small child. "That is why I ask for your alliance."

Alfred shook his head with a sigh. "I cannot agree to send my soldiers into a war that hasn't been declared by the enemy," he said.

"Is that your final word?"

The young ruler stayed silent, looking into the lush foliage that surrounded them. Some of the plants were from Hearts, a humid, rainy country in the southeast. They managed to thrive, even in the winter months, so long as they had enough water and were kept out of the bitter Spades wind. It was a battle to prevent them clawing into the brickwork, though; vines and ivy and other climbing plants snakes against the glass and stone, poking for any clumsy holes to sneak through. He wondered how the people of Hearts managed to hold them at the forest edge, prevent them from overrunning the vast manmade, rusting towns and city.

"I can offer defence to your capital, in the event that Clubs _does _attack. Though I doubt it. If that happens, you will be amply prepared and we'll join in the fight – on your side," he said carefully. "But my men are not to be sent out of your kingdom, understand?"

The visitor said nothing at first, just stared right back at him, probably summing up the offer. Finally, he extended his hand, covered in a fine, pearly silk glove and trimmed with fur. "All right," he growled, nodding as the King of Spades shook his hand. "You have my word."

It was frustrating that the King of Hearts had materialised on their doorstep without even a messenger's notice; with most of their guestrooms still occupied by the new members of court, the Queen had to take a precious hour out of his busy schedule to have the rooms rearranged. The man occupying the grandest of the bedrooms was moved out into a smaller one. He was about Arthur's height, and wore a permanent look of disapproval; hailing from one of the foresting villages of the north of the kingdom, it was no wonder that the poor worker hadn't even a second name. 'Lukas' was his only title so far, but he would have to choose a name soon if he was going to represent the logging communities in court.

"I'm awfully sorry about this," Arthur sighed, watching the servant scurry between the two rooms, shifting the new noble's few possessions to their new location. "We didn't expect to see His Majesty until autumn."

The man shrugged – an action of familiarity that had already caused the royal to raise his brows with reproach, but it showed the man had guts. "It's no bother, really Your Highness. It's just bad luck."

"You believe in luck?" Arthur asked before he could stop himself.

Another shrug. "Not as such; I didn't sit at home all day hoping that luck would feed me and my friends, but I must be pretty lucky to land a place in court. I'm just a peasant after all."

The Queen chuckled, "Oh I think the King would happily do away with peasants and nobles if he had his way. He already made a lot of lords and barons furious by removing them from court."

"They must hate him."

They had to wait for four consecutive sunny days to hold the Frost Tide festival. As usual, it was a rush to get everything ready for the fifth day, but most of the common folk did their own decorating, or held their own stalls on the edges of the streets selling charms and candy as a symbol that the winter months were well and truly over. Flowers and fresh pine needles were common sights in the capital city of Spades at this time, scattered into every corner and filling the air with sweet scents of life. Shepherds brought in their livestock for shows then sale and slaughter, while a choice few deer herdsmen provided the richer citizens with the finest venison of the squat deer from the eastern plains. It was a rare time that salt did not play a part in the festivities; there was no need to preserve what was fresh.

Many regarded Frost Tide as a wonderful holiday because, as was tradition, the castle's lower levels were opened to the public. Each kingdom's Feast was a private affair, hidden behind walls and sacred to local families yet utterly alien to foreigners, a different language altogether, but the festivals were a chance to tour and explore neighbouring countries. The Spades Monarchs could show off the grandeur of their castle to any who cared to look; that meant that the granite floor of the court had to shine almost with its own light, the windows were to be polished to the point that they would turn into mirrors. Maids and hired cleaners spent entire nights during the event simply buffing up the precious metals, gems and glass throughout the monstrous building. Such valuable pieces had to be guarded around the clock lest a tourist decided to pick up a souvenir, or hide until nightfall to pry a diamond from its nest.

This, of course, led to many cases of robbery at that time of year. During the preparation meeting Arthur suggested a penalty of losing your hand, a time-old punishment perfect for identifying former thieves. As usual, Alfred questioned him. "Everyone makes mistakes; why should we prevent them from making an honest living for a small slip-up? It would become a helpless cycle."

"But it will act as a deterrent," he'd argued, ruffling his hair, face hidden between his sharp elbows.

"It hasn't before, so why would it now?"

Instead of punishing the criminals with a felling or imprisonment, the King would simply have the item returned and the damage repaid, in the form of labour if need be. He was far too soft by Arthur's standards; scum would try their luck on the off chance they would get away with it, seeing as there was no real payment for stealing from the Royals.

Ultimately, it was the Queen's decision how to handle the citizens of their land, but he valued his King's input – he was King for a reason, even if it was still unknown to him.

On the seventh and final day of the celebration was a closing dinner for the royal and esteemed. There had been only a handful of cases throughout the week and it was easy to assume that any serious crime had been avoided during the distraction of the ongoing party. Arthur managed, just for once, to relax a little and enjoy the evening. The array of foods was sickly-sweet that year, curtosey of Alfred, and much of the fruit and candy had to be imported from Hearts and Diamonds. As much as it made his teeth twinge, it was a pleasant change from the salty, starchy diet that such a cold, damp nation endured for the majority of the year.

A sharp ringing made him sit up straight and look toward the Jack on his right-hand side, who was preparing to speak.

"Friends," he called down the table, silence falling much faster with the newly established members of court. The festival had given publicity to their new roles along with the chance to talk to many people from throughout the kingdom.

"We celebrate the gift of new beginnings! A new season, a new government, and this year, a new King and Queen." He raised his glass, filled with wine. "May Britannia's gracious bounty sustain us."

Arthur looked at the King expectantly; this was when he was supposed to give a speech.

The youth remained seated, lifted his glass and said, "Cheers!" he winced as Arthur kicked his shin under the table, but that didn't prevent him from taking a long gulp of his drink anyway.

The guests took that as their signal to tuck in; Mathias grinned as Alfred from his seat opposite the Queen. "Queen right, Your Majesty; short and sweet, let 'em enjoy themselves."

Arthur listened intently to the chit –chat and clatter of silverware against plates, accepting a generous serving of Diamond carrots from one of the butlers. When Alfred didn't reply he knew something was wrong.

The boy was gasping something, panic shining in his eyes. 'Can't breathe' he read from his dry lips as he tried to cough, but his throat just seemed to constrict further. Yao shot to his feet, saying something about choking, but Arthur knew better; there was nothing to dislodge, and while they wasted time trying to do so he would only struggle further and die within moments – if the King was any ordinary person. This was entirely different from a bit of food gone down the wrong way; his years of apothecary studies told him as much.

Poison.

Easily concealable, difficult to trace. Excruciatingly painful depending on the plant extracts used. He stood also, gently pushed the Jack aside and ordered Alfred onto his feet.

"Stop fighting it, Alfred," he whispered to him, placing one hand flat against the youth's chest, the other lightly around his neck, and spun a string of enchantments from his mouth. The room had grown quiet, though mutterings spread through the people at the long table as sapphire blue light began to spread out from under the Queen's palms until it enveloped the younger Monarch. A final chant caused the light to explode in a brilliant yet silent flash, before dimming completely.

Arthur struggled under the King's weight as he slumped into oblivion; those of non-magical blood found it utterly exhausting to be exposed to such great power. He sighed with relief when a handful of guards lifted the heavy man off his shoulders. "He'll come round soon," he said, "Take him to his chambers, make sure he's comfortable for when he wakes up."

He turned to the rest of the people in the room. "Do carry on." Once they were all preoccupied, he spun to face Mathias. "I want this castles scoured and searched, particularly between here and the kitchens. Find that poison, find the bastard who did this. Lock. Him. **Up.**"

The head guardsman looked a little pale, but bowed and hurried off to organise and begin a full search for the source of the King's misery.

_I can spin this,_ Arthur thought, selecting some of Alfred's favourite foods from the various platters to take to his room. _The population doesn't know that the King can't be felled by the hands of a mortal – why else would they bother?_ To them, he could have been murdered with barely a trace; the offender would have willingly committed the highest treason.

_Time to schedule a hanging._

Everything felt blurred. Not just his vision, thanks to his spectacles being left somewhere by the side of the bed, but also sound; it was quiet, but somewhere in the distance was a faint roaring, like the sound of a racing river. But he couldn't quite make it out.

He felt numb, his fingertips and toes tingling icily while his chest and throat _burned_. He was caught somewhere odd between freezing and overheating.

Gradually his mind stopped reeling and spinning enough for him to hauled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and fumble for his glasses. Once he could see and think clearly, he pulled on his shirt and coat that had been folded on top of one another on his dresser, along with a loose pair of worn leather boots, and slowly made his way down the tall, decorative corridors of the castle toward the distant white noise, a left-over pastry in one hand for him to occasionally nibble on until it was gone.

Soon there was no mistaking the blended shouts of a crowd outside; he caught sight of hundreds, thousands of them crushed into the confines of the cobbled courtyard through the windows as he followed the echoes of the Queen's voice from one of the front balconies.

"... charged with attempted assassination..."

_Oh no,_ he thought, breaking into a pained run, _oh no, no Arthur, no._ Not in his kingdom, not under his rule.

"... sentenced..."

He picked up the pace until his joints ached.

"...death!"

He was still dashing up the marble steps when he heard the trap doors open, the slip of rope and the observing public exploding into cheers and cries.

Arthur was walking toward him just as he reached the balcony. Before any words could be exchanged, Alfred wrapped his hands around the short man's neck, twisted them around and pinned him mid-air against the wall. Startled guards shouted around him, but the King was solely focussed on his Queen as the man squirmed in his grasp, bringing his legs up to kick helplessly at the air while he clawed as the steel grip at his vulnerable little neck.

The jade eyes locked on Alfred's, bulging with panic and confusion. "How does it feel?" the King growled, squeezing ever-so-slightly against the cartilage, but enough to but off the last of his breath and leave a bruise. "What does it feel like to have your life drain away like those men you just had killed?"

"Alfred." Yao's voice was sharp and cut through the dark of his mind. No one ordered the King, but Alfred still obeyed the Jack's wishes and let Arthur drop to the floor in a crumpled heap, rasping and heaving. The King stepped away without a second glance, talking in hushed tones to the priest while guards saw to helping the Queen recover.

"I said during our initiation that there were to be no executions, no torturing," he said through gritted teeth, not hesitating to point an accusing finger at the petrified Royal on the floor. "And he disobeyed. One simple rule: no one should be hurt. He broke it."

"My King, don't you remember yesterday evening?" Yao calmly asked, hands clasped and his head bowed.

Alfred paused, thinking back; had he really slept through to the next afternoon? He remembered suddenly feeling a jolt run through his body, his chest stuck in place, unable to move air in or out. Pain, like a twinge but amplified to an unthinkable scale.

Yao continued: "You were poisoned sire. These men would have killed you, if not for your bestowed gifts."

A spluttering cough from behind made Alfred turn, at last looking his Queen in the face though he was disgusted with him. "He'd right, Alfred – ah, Gods! – They knew the extent of their intentions, and paid the ultimate price for it," he wheezed, bent slightly as he fought to suck oxygen into his lungs.

The King glared at the other Monarch, lacking the words to express how damned _angry_ he was with him. "I thought we had moved on from such uncivilised judgements, advanced further as a society. But from the sounds of my people outside, I guess I was wrong." He stood ramrod straight, listening to the triumphant chorus of the public with a resigned acceptance; he was the most powerful Royal in the continent, yet he couldn't even control or conform his own subjects. Some of them even wanted him dead.

_What am I doing wrong?_


End file.
